


A Series of Stories Related to Justice

by Ficbot5000 (Kryptontease)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Cinematic Universe, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Ficlet Collection, Humor, M/M, Written on a Dare, author is a human pretending to be a robot pretending to be a human, fic written by robots, generative text
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 18:05:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13082352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptontease/pseuds/Ficbot5000
Summary: This is a series of superbat porn ficlets written in a style of predictive text fics written by AIs. The inspiration for this collection is the Batman: The Animated Series synopsis written by a predictive text interface, "Batman Loves Him a Criminal." It can be found ontumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

After the Doomsday event in Metropolis and Gotham, Batman became an idea more than a man, and ideas cannot be killed except when they are no longer thought. Bruce could not stop thinking. He had so many ways to think about it and not think about it.

However, crime did not sleep. It was a lot quieter down in Gotham. The alleys and streets were alive and some people weren’t. 

"He won't recover from that head wound anytime soon," Bruce said as dumped the body of the criminal that he had stopped onto a Gothamn gargoyle. The man was still alive. The good people of GCPD would find him in the morning. 

Bruce had learned so much from his confrontation with Clark and struggling with brands. He was standing on corner. He was striding up the wrong staircase on the way to discovering the true meaning of Justice. He gritted his teeth into the dark nighttime of the soul. Bruce had a long day of fighting crime, and he was nearly out of patience. 

He had been thinking about Clark all day. He needed to stop fighting crime and look square in the face all of the things he was not thinking about. He punished himself so hard that he could barely understand when he found himself in the Batmobile on the way back to the Batcave. 

Bruce moved into the cave from the carport. He looked identity porn today, and Clark could see it by the glint in his eye that they were going to sex in this very room. Clark was turned on and Superman, because Batman was here.

Bruce screamed his passion into the dark walls of the Batcave, and Superman was by his side in an instant. Not Clark Kent, whose glasses flickered out and landed on a table, but Superman who cheerfully found inside more of himself than Bruce could have ever possibly hoped and they smiled covertly in the full swing of all of their desires, and passions, and limbs. A hand stroked Clark, and Bruce was there too. 

“Touch me,” Bruce said, and then Clark touched him and Bruce was filled with Justice. He was hard and so was his penis.

"Don't punish yourself, Bruce," Clark breathed and shouted his love, panicking. 

"Don't tell me what to do." Bruce came suddenly. Clark looked his fill fiercely and came too. 

They laid in each other’s arms, hovering over Bruce’s workshop in the place of stars. Bruce felt a moment of peace, where the staircase down into the basement of his mind seemed less frightening than it ever did in the daylight, or the moonlight, or the lamplight, or the siren glow of crime in the city that never sleeps. Bruce was a Batman, and so was Clark, and they were happy in this place for as long as Bruce kept his mouth shut.

At last, Bruce looked at Clark and said the most romantic thing in his mind. 

“Did you hear something?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The predictive text robot levels up to superbat domestic fluff with spatulas. Written by request of commenter "Which of these is a color".

Storytelling was so central to how Bruce experienced the world, that he at first did not understand what he was reading was not a newspaper. It was, in fact, a crude assemblage of words taped to the back of a telephone book. The atmosphere in the house had been undignified for some time. He folded the phone book awkwardly and looked up Alfred, his trusted butler and right-handed friend. 

"Something's bizarre," Bruce said. Alfred agreed with The Bat's deduction. A pained expression crossed Alfred's face as Bruce took the lead in the conversation. “Have you worried about things, Alfred?"

"I’m the butler, Bruce,” Alfred said, “and you should never presume to know that. The House of Wayne is built on spears and criminals, and you are The Batman. You should know what the good men of Gotham need.” 

Bruce nodded, intent and receiving. 

“But there is the matter of the spatulas." 

Ever since Clark Kent, Daily Planet Superhero and Crime Reporter had moved into the lakehouse, and taken up residence in the bedroom, Bruce had been at odds with himself and his goals for Justice. 

Bruce loved Clark, and if he wasn't trying to lie to himself, he also loved Clark's reporting. He had been sleeping on the couch for a week while the reporter investigated at The Daily Planet's field office in Gotham. It was around that time that small things happening around the lakehouse, but Bruce had expanded himself into other areas of concern, and he had spread himself over everything that he could touch. Bruce knew this was the domestic fluff before the storm of emotions. And eventually, he would reach something he couldn’t touch. 

(The telephone book with its cutout words was a bridge he needed to cross with Clark. _Later._ ) 

Bruce paused mid-thought, wryly. "How many spatulas are we talking about, Alfred." 

Alfred adjusted his glasses, and showed Bruce the Bat terminal computer. The tabletop glowed, anticipating with the mission briefing. Bruce crumpled the half-folded napkin in his hand, the one that Clark liked so much with their lunches and dinners. He read the schematics and worried the cloth edge with his fingernails. 

“A shipping container is missing.” Bruce gritted his teeth. “This is a job for a Batman.” 

“ _You’re_ a Batman.” 

Bruce conceded the point. Alfred was right. Bruce was a Batman. He too caught up in binary thinking, the kind of thinking that almost killed the Clark he loved. The good people of Gotham needed Batman *and* spatulas, and he was going to find a valid reason to do both. He invested all of Bruce Wayne’s money in the case and waited.

*

The dividends finally paid Bruce back with an interest in his casework, and Bruce reviewed the colophon of his notes as he climbed up the unknown stairs from the Batcave.

“Where are you going up those stairs from?” Clark called from the kitchen. 

Bruce could have sworn he was just there; and maybe that was because he was tired from Justice. He entered the kitchen and understood the mistake of being where he was. He was standing in the kitchen of his dreams with Clark barechested. Clark flipped the pan several times. The pancakes and eggs wafted delicious smells into the air. With chesty precision, Clark scrambled the eggs, and patted them down with a spatula. 

Bruce honed in on that detail. “Where did you get that, Clark?” 

“My gorgeous hot looks?” The eggs sizzled smugly. 

“No, not your exhibitionsm. The spatula.” 

“Oh, it was in the drawer, with many others,” Clark said, quirking his eyebrow lips. “Or am I putting you on?” 

Bruce opened the drawer. There were at least twenty black-and-green silicone spatulas inside. Pristine. Like they had been unwrapped from a shipping container on the docks that could only have been stolen by superpowers. 

Bruce’s eyes widened. “You.”

“Me,” Clark said. 

“Come on me,” Bruce invited breathlessly.


End file.
